


Once Upon a Dream

by AbsoluteNegation



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Biting, Community: yuletide_smut, Complete, Fake Science, M/M, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 07:19:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2016036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbsoluteNegation/pseuds/AbsoluteNegation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tenpou's having a psychotic break - with a side of Disney.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Postcards From Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [7veilsphaedra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/7veilsphaedra/gifts).



 

Ten  
 _There was a clarity to these moments that nothing else, waking or sleeping, could ever match. The rush of adrenalin through sensitive nerves and_  
nine  
 _the perfectly controlled slice of a palm across the throat, spin and fire with the other hand, easy as any practice run,_  
eight  
 _back to back for one moment, clearing the way, covering your back before he spun away; gazes met, question and agreement,_  
seven  
 _Blood misted the air, scent of gunpowder, metal, death, each step one more to victory_  
six  
 _bodies reduced to the mechanics of murder - force, speed, trajectory -_    
five  
 _carving a way to the escape route you'd planned hours ago,_    
four  
 _and in the way of dreams and distant memories, the sound of your laughter_  
three  
 _and the sound was pure joy_  
two  
 _and life_  
one  
 _The comfort of wa_ king up is knowing he’ll do it in his own flat, the surroundings as known and fitting as an old shirt. It makes for a good start to his day, he tells himself, when he knows precisely what the faint cracks in the ceiling will look like even without opening his eyes. There’s also the comfort of knowing he won’t _have_  to wake up all the way until he actually starts driving. Everything’s arranged just so, after all, and making toast, shaving, showering, dressing have turned into muscle memory, something he can do with eyes half closed. He usually spends the first hour or so after waking up in a pleasant sort of daze, morning routines blurred as if they’ve been wrapped in his weariness.

The trouble with waking up is that occasionally, he does it screaming.

The splash of cold water on his face sends a shock through him, even though he’d braced himself for it. It sends the last vestiges of the physicality of the dream shuddering from the part of him that thought it wasn’t one, but even though he knows it isn’t, he can still feel the exertion of the battle, the rush of adrenaline in his veins, still feel the tug at the corner of his mouth where his grin had pulled at the tiny cut on its side, the punch that had cut it in the first place. The texture of the blood spattered on his face, the _tongue that licked it up, soft chuckle in his ear._

_“Mm. Do we have time?” fingers tangled in cloth, pulling, ripping, the urgency still driving him although the intent couldn’t be more different…_

_“We’ll_  make _time.”_

“Fuck,” he says aloud, shaking his head until he feels almost dizzy. It doesn’t really help.

He looks younger than he is, in the mirror. He feels a few centuries older than that. It’s something that’s always puzzled him, how he can manage to look daisy-fresh while feeling like he’s met the business end of a harvester in the recent past. He runs his hand through the bird’s nest that is his hair on waking up; unsurprisingly, it doesn’t do anything towards bringing it back under control, let alone looking decent.

“Fuck,” he mutters again, vaguely reassured by the obscenity, unsure why.

It’s over an hour and a half before the time he usually wakes, and the sky outside is still dark. No reason to go in early, either; it’s not as if he’s indispensable. Right. TV it is, then.

The ticker tape that runs at the base of the business news has always soothed him, in a way – the cold recital of facts that could make or break men. Green, red, scrolling percentages… He stares at it blankly for a while, wrapping his arms around his knees, huddled on his uncomfortable couch, hoping the sheer monotony of it will drive his mind blank, but it hasn’t worked so well of late when it comes to the dreams. 


	2. Rat Race

"All right kids, Daddy's here, so... _get out._ "

All three of the lab rats look up as he speaks, and he favours them with a raised eyebrow. In seconds, they're gathering their things, leaving only data sheets and notes behind for his perusal, filling past him to the door. The girl, Hwan, gives him a rather poisonous glare; he responds with a greasy kind of leer, which turns to a wide grin as her face flushes pink and scrunches up in disgust. Ah, tiny pleasures...about as satisfying as it gets, around here.

Tucking his keycard into his shirt pocket, he glances at his watch. Still ten minutes to go before the bug he slipped into the autolock program a few months back kicks in - more than enough time to check out the data from the last two shifts before he settles to task. The little flutter of excitement that has insisted upon commandeering his stomach all day pops up again, and he resolutely smashes it down with unflinching knowledge of the realities of what he's doing. As careful as he's been, it could still all come to nothing, though the little voice in the back of his mind - the one that runs on a bone-deep instinct and intuition, above all else - whispers that he knows better.

His jaw clenches briefly as he reaches to pick up and flip through the pages of notes and printouts left by the lab rats. Everything in them is predictable, looking exactly as expected, of course. He hasn't spent five long months preparing things (not to mention the painstaking recalibration of injectors and sensors every fucking night for the past two) just to watch it all get blown to shit by some randomly accurate reading.

That kind of thing is strictly for amateurs.

The glow from the tank on the back wall tugs at his attention, but he doesn't want to look there, yet. Instead, he busies himself with checking the specs on the equipment - another thing that, like the readings, won't go wrong - confirming his own data through trapdoors and back alleys in the programs. They had been surprisingly difficult to create, those little cul-de-sacs where he hides reality, and more than once he cursed himself for not paying enough attention to that kind of thing when he had the chance. He wonders briefly as he closes the last of his informational wormholes, if it was nearly as hard for _them_  to build the pockets that hid an entire life.

Well, whatever the difficulty in making them, they hadn't been quite enough, had they? Of course, he smirks to himself, they hadn't planned on _him,_  and there was only so much anyone could do against genius and a certain type of military training. Just the fact that he was here was proof, after all. The problem, he'd discovered when he was setting things up, was that plausible deniability left loopholes that anyone with a desire to exploit them could sail a fucking aircraft carrier through. He'd had something far, far deeper than desire, and their layers of secrecy had fallen before him with an ease that was almost insulting after the trial of finding the fuckers in the first place.

What he found upon arriving hadn't shocked him; indeed, he can count four times off the top of his head when a single decision made differently could easily have placed him running this particular show (and he'd have done it better). Moral outrage has no place in science - as far as he can tell, anyway - but _personal_  outrage travels with the traveller, and _it_  belongs everywhere. He's been keeping it close, the cold fire that brought him here, using it to slog through the tedious bullshit of dealing with these tiny, mindless insects night after night after fucking night. It hadn't taken long to scare them off, everyone in the place scattering like cockroaches as they all discovered an intense distaste for his company. Now and then, it tickles him to corner one of them for a nice, long discussion. It's poetic justice, really.

Another look at his watch - damn it, he's two minutes late now - and he berates himself for going soft, surrounded by mind-numbing routine and its pasty-faced victims. He checks the numbers one last time, mentally calculating adjustments even as he moves across the floor toward the back wall and the tank with its faint green nimbus of light. Still, he doesn't look at it as he strips off his lab coat, rolling up his right sleeve while his eyes dart over the equipment. Everything is as it should be (the rats are so conscientious about these things), leads and sensors and the awkward helmet that looks like something from a b-grade sci-fi movie, all waiting for him.

He settles himself into the reclining 'chair' (he still has a tough time referring to anything this comfortable as anything short of 'bed', but he supposes that's influenced by his experiences), reaching for the gels that will hold the sensors. Casting his mind back over the past couple of months, he searches for anything left undone as he places the gels. He'd looked hard before he went in, poring over every single document in the file for clues as to places and keys, how to break the locks they'd built in without shattering the whole construct. Long days awake between shifts here at night, headaches and beard stubble and the pure, stunning audacity of what they're attempting leaving him ravaged before he'd even approached his goals.

Still, by the time he got inside, he'd been well-armed, and the actual task hadn't been as difficult as he had expected. It seemed that the brainiacs had been foolishly secure in the idea that either he wouldn't come, or he wouldn't be able to decipher their little mousetrap well enough to be able to do anything about it. They were very, very wrong.

The construct is a strange combination of elegance and vulgarity, a weird middle ground between the subconscious mind of a man and the conscious attempt to imitate it, like a child's drawing of itself. The finding and destruction of various boxes, locks and shields had been simple enough, once he located them, sifting through a dream’s dreams of childhood, experiences of youth and _women,_  searching out the right mental strings upon which to pull to begin the unravelling. The women had been a surprise (he'd been relieved to find that every one of them were implants), the smoking decidedly not, and he'd needed a drink after discovering the cubicle, and the TV programmed to default to CNN. The ant farm on the table beside the couch had caused actual spluttering and, once he'd gone home for the day, a bar fight.

It's the complete and utter annihilation of a precise, sublimely lethal beauty - counterpart; the same side of a different coin - and its architects won't even have time to repent.

Really, he had to admire the way they’d taken him; mid-mission, with the fate of a small country in the balance, they’d simply made the man vanish from the marketplace. Before three hours had passed, he’d known that something had gone wrong. Which was next to impossible, but... He’d finished the mission, a clean shot from a completely different location and a day earlier than they had planned, and then he had also disappeared. They should have killed him, he had thought at the time, rather than leave him to hunt.

He finishes placing the sensors over the gels, checking leads against the readings on the monitor next to him, nodding to himself at what he sees. He flicks the switch for the helmet, the program eternally running, and turns toward the instrument tray on the other side as it whines into life. Shaking his head at the sheer improbability of the thing - it never ceases to amaze him that something so incredibly inelegant manages to work so well - he prepares the needle, and then lays it aside to triple-check everything. This is his last chance to go inside, and it has to go perfectly. Contact, tonight, and a reclaiming.

Taking up the tourniquet from the tray, he lies back in the chair, shifting a little for comfort (the time he'd come out with his right leg entirely numb had been more than enough, thanks) before he ties it around his arm, using his teeth to pull it tight. Needle, the inviting vein that pops up inside his elbow, and then the surreal feeling that he always gets when he watches the point slip past the barrier of his skin. Another perfect insertion - a smirk for the thought - and the push of the plunger, then he's putting it down and pulling the tourniquet loose, his mind beginning to blur around the edges already. He drags the helmet down over his head, one last glance at the readings to be sure, before he lets the drugs take him.

Finally, he shifts his eyes to the tank against the wall, a little smile playing over his mouth as he singsongs, "I'm coming to get you..."


	3. Into the Warren

Friday nights are marginally more comfortable than the rest of the week; the bustle of the bar appeals after six days’ worth of hushed cubicles and his flat, which soaks up sound like a sponge and lets the rhythm of his breathing press oppressively into his ears. The women who flutter around them are shrill, and the inevitable televised sports on TV that he pretends to follow are mind-numbing; but hey, at least the beer’s good.

Friday nights are a lot more comfortable when someone isn’t boring a hole in his back.

They’ve placed themselves right behind him, and are busy trying to burrow through his skull with their eyes. It’s irritating, and unsettling, and the corner of his mind that frets at sleeping with his back to the door protests the vulnerability of his current seat. There are a few mirrors scattered around the bar, but they don’t show him anyone suspicious, and that, more than anything else, is worrying; either whoever’s watching has calculated that, or he’s imagining it, and he’s honestly unsure which option is less appealing to him. He lifts his cellphone, hoping to catch a glimpse on its screen; unfortunately, Jamie chooses that very moment to clap him heartily on the back – his chosen method of pointing out a particularly skillful play – and the beer in his left hand goes everywhere, including on the phone. He curses and sets it down, wiping frantically at the phone, watching with some dismay as the beer soaks into his sleeve. Great – he’s going to go home smelling of the stuff, a distinctly unattractive prospect, since he’s started to dislike it over the past few months

_never liked the stuff anyway_

which is strange, because he’s loved the taste of it all his life, ever since his first taste at… how old was he then? Not that it matters, of course.

  
He hunkers down in his seat, consciously lowering his shoulders for the third time in the last ten minutes, trying to look a little less hunted, although he’s not sure he’s pulling it off. The staring just gets worse, and he loses patience about the second time he has to scratch at the middle of his back to relieve the unease. Bends down, fiddling with his shoelace while he sneaks a look behind him, and holy _fuck_ it’s _him_ , that stupid smarmy

_familiar_

grin on his face. It vanishes when he catches Tenpou looking, replaced with something that sends a shiver down his spine. Then the man’s raising his glass in a gesture that’s salutation and invitation at once; it’d be just another pass to evade except that he’s been seeing him for months now. He’s dreamt his voice, the slow grin that’s curving his mouth, the taste of it, and…and damn it, if he’s hallucinating this - him - he might as well pour himself into a cab for the nearest psychiatric ward – at the end of the night, because he’ll probably want to drink a lot between now and then.

In the end, even the uncomfortable prospect of determining his own (in)sanity isn’t enough to deter him, and he finds himself excusing himself with a quiet word. His heart is racing by the time he pushes his chair back, winding his way through the tables to the one where the man’s at.

The chair he drags with him from the neighbouring table screeches a protest across the floor as he sits down opposite the man, looking straight at him. This close, even the bar’s dim lighting can’t hide it; it’s him. The hair, the eyes, the slant to the cheekbones, even the calculated sprawl. He fights down the urge to grab his collar and shake him and demand to know what the hell’s happening – if he’s even solid to the touch.

“What the hell do you want?” he asks instead, failing utterly to conceal the thin thread of desperation vibrating in the dark.

All that earns him is an innocent look, coupled with an edge of anticipation; part of him points out irritably that he’d be willing to stake a sizable sum on it not being real. A tiny grin curves the man’s lips as he murmurs, “Well, now. That's a question with many answers.”

“I'll settle for knowing why you've been trying to drill a hole in my back with your eyes for the last half-hour.”

The man raises an eyebrow at him, taking a slow sip of his drink before answering, a move calculated to draw out the moment – and fray his patience while he’s at it. “It’s a very nice back?” he offers. Whatever he’s been expecting – that isn’t it. Tenpou stares at the man, utterly without words; at least it’s more graceful than spluttering. That provokes a grin; the man takes a slow drag of his smoke before straightening, propping his elbows on the table. “Surely you’re familiar with being… appreciated.”

_You might want to appreciate while a little closer_  dies in his throat; that isn’t something he’d say, or think. “I don’t…” _like men?_  but that isn’t true either, it seems. He shakes his head to clear himself of the thoughts, frowning a little. He swallows hard; it’s a risk, and a foolish one, but the joy of eleven o’ clock in a bar on Friday is that most of the people around him are probably making even greater fools of themselves. “You're... I know you from somewhere, don't I?” he says, barely audibly.

A tilt of the head, and his smile widens just a little, calling up – memories? Dreams? – of a hundred smiles like it; chin propped on his hand and a lazy grin against his glass, the slow smirk half-hidden behind a rifle and the promise of imminent carnage, the wide, mad grin of the predator being chased in turn. “I wonder. It’s a small world, they say.”

Tenpou makes a small frustrated sound, and perhaps the irritation is what lends him the courage. “I’ve been dreaming about you.” Too late, he thinks how that could be taken. “And no, damn it, that’s not a cheap line.”

The man chuckles. “Aw. I must admit to being slightly disappointed, even if I didn't really think it was.” He licks his lips, then takes another drag of his smoke. There’s a subtle sort of tension to him; despite his deliberately relaxed façade, his gaze still sweeps the room every so often, watchful. For some reason, that reassures Tenpou more than confidence would have. Confidence so rarely has something to hide, after all – or something to lose. “So, I suppose that makes this...kismet?”

Tenpou takes a deep calming breath, feeling a telltale muscle in his throat begin to jump and grateful it’s hidden behind his collar. “I don’t know,” he snaps, “does kismet usually try to drive you crazy?” He grits his teeth, exhaling sharply, pushing his anger back as he meets his gaze directly. “I need to know. Do I know you?”

The man pulls away a little, his gaze oddly intent. “Once upon a dream? Mm, perhaps. What does your gut tell you?”

Oh, and _that’s_  a picture of everything wrong with his life, isn’t it – a psychotic break with a side of Disney. Tenpou pushes his chair back, standing up, carefully ignoring the part of him that’s babbling cheerfully about how well he’s placed to smash the guy’s face into the table. Anger won’t serve him well at all right now. “I'm not going to discuss this further in here.”

The floor beneath his feet seems insubstantial as he shuffles his way through the crowd; he feels oddly light on his feet, disconnected from everything around him except his rising awareness of the man following him – and of the anger that’s congealing slowly in his throat. All the dreams, the nausea, the disorientation, and then this guy walks in here, pretty as you please, and quotes a fucking _movie_  at him?

The humidity of the air outside strikes him like a slap to the face; it would ordinarily have made him sweat, but today he barely notices it, or the inky darkness beyond the light the bar’s sign casts. 

It has the faint indefinable reek that alleys in every corner of the world share, although it seems to dim the moment he’s in it. Tenpou wrinkles his nose as he turns to face the man, who’s giving him a distinctly disapproving look. This, naturally, does wonders for his temper, and there’s an irritated edge to his voice. “Look...am I going to get actual answers out of you, or just Disney quotes?”

The man gives him a huge grin, looking genuinely pleased for some reason. “Ah, sorry. Couldn't help myself.” Tenpou raises an eyebrow, and he continues, “Why do you think I should have an answer for that? Am I meant to be psychic, or is it those dreams...?”

That question leaves him nonplussed. He’s been assuming all along that this man knows something, _must_  know something, or why would he be here, at exactly this time? Why single Tenpou out? …and yet, it’s possible that this is all still just another, more elaborate dream, in which case he’s making a right fool of himself right now talking to thin air. But no one neutral would react to what Tenpou’s been saying this calmly, as if they were expecting his words.

No, there’s no other option at this point, nothing to lose. Either the man’s not real or he knows _something,_ and he owes it to the battered remnants of his mind to find out. “I've been dreaming about...a lot of things, really, but you were in them.” He steps closer, taking in every reaction. “It was you, and I was...” The images race back into his mind, drying his mouth, quickening his breath; gunpowder scent, the sharp tang of blood, the comfortable weight of steel in his hand. “I was killing people. I remember things I...” _Things I never learnt. Things I couldn’t have known._  He shakes his head, watching him. “You know something. You wouldn't have reacted this way if you didn't.”

That, paradoxically, seems to please him. “Ah, _very_  good,” he murmurs, leaning back against the building. Crosses his arms, watching him. “But you've just said that you remember.”

Tenpou shakes his head, frustrated at the words he isn’t able to find. “I remember how to do things. Things I never learned. I remember y-” he cuts himself off, swallowing, keenly aware of the desperation in his voice and hating every moment of it. Takes a step closer to him, invading his space. “I think I dreamed of you teaching me some of those.”

That provokes a reaction all right – it would be helpful if he knew what that reaction meant. “Fancy or memory? Which is it?”

Tenpou tenses sharply, because there it is, isn’t it, the irreconcilable either-or he’s been shying away from since he first began to have these dreams, facing him at last. It burns to have it thrown in his face so casually by someone _he’s known so long_  who’s a perfect stranger to him. “Why don’t you tell me?”

The man shakes his head, tsking quietly. The gesture wouldn’t look out of place with _wrong answer, move two squares back on the board._ “If I said it was all a figment of your subconscious? Would you go back to your cable news and Friday nights out with the boys, and watching your industrious little pets and forget that this ever happened?”

Tenpou holds up his hand, unable to get past what seems, initially, to be the most important part of this. “You broke into my-” and then the rest registers, and he’s left blinking, the outrage gone as if it was never there. He’s never had a conversation with a possibly imaginary person before – he thinks, anyway – but he’s fairly sure discussing their own unreality isn’t usually the done thing. “If what was?” he asks slowly, just to be sure.

A flash of unmistakable impatience crosses the man’s face. “The memories - or dreams, whichever - all of it, Tenpou.”

_Red pill, blue pill,_  he thinks semi-hysterically. That wasn’t Disney, was it? But when it comes down to it, maybe he’s shallow enough – desperate enough – _tired_  enough to choose an uncertain truth. And if it’s truth… “I...no. I want to know.” The words lend him the determination of finality, and he holds them close, feeling his resolve strengthen. With it comes a rush of anger, directionless and cold, strangely cleansing as it races through his limbs. “...and you're still talking in hypotheticals.”

The man blinks at him, eyes narrowing in wary interest. Tenpou doesn’t know what he’s seeing, but he can imagine. “I shouldn't be?”

He nearly snarls at the evasion; it’s one too many, and the anger, fear and uncertainty of the past few months boil over, pushing him to cross the distance between them, shoving at his shoulders, pinning him against the wall. The man sucks in a sharp breath, hands rising, then falling to his sides again.

“I'm sick of _if_  and _maybe_  and _if so_.” His vision is actually blurring with anger, his hands shaking nearly as badly as his voice when he speaks, and God, God, he never actually expected him to be solid to the touch. “No, you _fucking shouldn't be._  So tell me what I need to know or get the fuck out.”

The man gives him a searching look for a moment before a grin of pure delight breaks across his face. “Ah, there you are!” he says, sounding so pleased that Tenpou has to stifle the urge to turn to see if there’s someone standing behind him. “Long time no see, indeed. …you're right.” And damn it, he knows that grin, he’s seen it, shared it, provoked it, kissed it–   
  
Tenpou shivers, realising he’s tilted his head as if to close the rest of the distance between them, part of him aching to. “What?”

“I said you know me. And you know in your gut that those dreams? Aren't.” The words are low, but they contain the force of a punch, desperation and sincerity threading through it; he has to hold himself steady, torn between the impulse to stagger back and protest and the desire to sway forward and touch that’s tugging him in, so hard. He leans in, unable to resist the need thrumming through him, the familiarity of his scent, his hands curling around and into the smooth skin of his shoulders, holding him still and affirming his reality at once. “Remember!”

His eyes half close, the breath he draws shaking as badly as he is, attacked by needs he has no way of defining, much less knowing how to fulfill. It’s all there, everything, and yet he can’t see – can’t feel – can’t _remember,_  and it hurts more than anything he’s ever known. “I don't know how to...” he falters, unable to find words. “I know you,” he says instead, clutching at the idea, any information he can use to slice at the walls in his mind, bitterly regretting every moment he’s spent pushing the dreams away from his mind. “How do I know you?”

The man hisses a breath, and Tenpou can see the moment when he catches himself from swaying in as clearly as if he could calculate every movement in his surrounding if he chose to. He inhales, and is trapped by his scent, the warmth he can feel from his body. “We used to...work...together. Before you came here.” He raises his hand, tentatively, as if he’s not quite sure Tenpou’s going to be real either, and somehow that’s what lets him stay still as he reaches for a lock of Tenpou’s hair, sliding it between finger and thumb. The gesture, simple as it is, seems stunningly intimate, making his eyes close for a moment as he drinks it in. _It’s been so long,_  he thinks, biting his lip to keep from saying it, and then wonders crazily who was thinking it. “My name is Nii.”

_finally_

And he has his blade after all, it seems, the sound of Nii’s name freeing him. He nods to himself once, gathering his courage, but really, this feels like the first easy thing he’s done in months as he lunges forward, kissing him hard.

A tiny sound of relief as their lips meet – he’s certain it isn’t his – and Nii’s arm is wrapping around his back, the other hand sliding into his hair, pulling him close with vicious strength. They’re both unsteady; he can feel Nii trembling a little against him, and he presses in as the kiss turns hungry, needing more. The sharp pain of Nii’s hand fisting in his hair and yanking at the band is proof that this is real – _pinch yourself,_  he thinks dizzily, and bites down on Nii’s lip instead, tasting him, breathing him in, hands roaming over him. Pulls him in closer, arm around his neck, shivering at Nii’s whimper of relief, skin aching for the feel of his, for anything that drives away the fear and anchors him – and whether it’s to reality or not doesn’t matter, not in the face of this glorious need and agonising fulfillment.

A sharp tug at the back of his neck, and his hair’s fanning free from the band, let fall carelessly to the ground, and even the brush of his own hair against his neck seems strangely clear. Nii breaks the kiss with a sharp nip to his lip, tugging his head back hard; Tenpou moves with it easily, some part of him reeling with memories of just this touch, a shiver running through him as Nii licks at his throat. The sound of his name breathed against his neck, hot breath tingling on wet skin in the chill of the night, and he’s anticipating the rough bite to his throat even before Nii’s teeth sink into him. He’s heard his name whispered like that before, perhaps, but the memories of the women he’s fucked seem faded, distorted, as if Nii’s flung a bucket of water across the canvas of his mind, leaving only the immediacy of his own presence and the wash of images every touch calls up in him.

An odd vibration against his skin, the sound of a growl, and he reels from the sheer force of the need he can feel thrumming through Nii’s body, the desperation in the way his fingers clutch at his back, twist in his hair. His breath catches hard as Nii rolls his hips against him, a sound caught in his throat at the rush of pleasure. He slides his leg between Nii’s, wanting to crawl into his skin, and the yearning is woven clear through his soft moan of Nii’s name against his skin; he can see the brief grin that fluttered across his mouth fade, replaced by something dark and deep, uncompromisingly possessive. Nii’s hand curls around his throat as he kisses him again, and instincts he never knew he had are crying out against the vulnerability of it, telling him how to break out of it, and yet his response is to shiver and whimper against him. He closes his eyes and remembers a hundred other times like this, harsh grip pinning him to the wall and oddly soft mouth on his own, and God, he _needs._

He begins to pull Nii’s shirt open almost by instinct, hands tangling clumsily in the fabric, ripping off a button in his haste. Nii’s fingers slide along his collarbone, his other hand slipping under his shirt to press against his back, the heat of his skin sparking a deep tremor in him. Tenpou shudders and arches against him – and God, it feels just as he thought it would – dipping his head to bite hard at his throat. Nii tilts his head back with a quiet gasp, letting Tenpou lick the marks.

Pressed in like this, he can feel it all, all his senses are drowning in him, and he buries his face in Nii’s neck, trembling on the edge of losing himself in the one thing he’s found that makes sense to him. “This…you…” he growls, fumbling for words that escape him as surely as part of him still dreads Nii will. He pushes Nii’s shirt and jacket off his shoulders, lets his hands roam his body, and below the need to give pleasure, there’s an affirmation – there, that place on his side that still makes him shiver, the sensitivity of his chest hasn’t changed. _Still the same, real. Mine._  He presses into Nii, and his voice is almost a moan, twisted with something barely recognisable even to himself. “ _Missed_  you…”

Nii shudders roughly at his words; the small cry that escapes him is deeply gratifying, and Tenpou rakes his nails down Nii’s body, claiming – reclaiming – as he shoves his shirt as far down his arms as it can go, baring pale skin that seems strangely bright in the dim-lit alley. They’re in far too public a place to go further, and he’d give anything to be back in his little flat now, where he can give in to the need to touch and kiss and taste that's devouring him.

A low growl of encouragement, and Nii’s fingers tug deftly through his shirt, popping the buttons, baring his skin to the chill night air. “That’s right, Tenpou… _remember._  ” His voice is barely a murmur, but a shout couldn’t have rocked him harder, or made the deep thrill of fear-laced anticipation that races through him any stronger. It’s a strangely known response – _to danger,_  something in him whispers. He drags in a shaking breath and shoves Nii back across the room to his bed. Nii moves easily with it, practiced, giving him a wicked little grin.

Tenpou feels his own lips curl up as he stalks after him, pulling his head back sharply to lick up his throat to his mouth, reveling in the shiver that provokes in him. The depth of both their responses to this shouldn’t surprise him, but the vividness of it does, stealing his breath away. It’s like the first time he ever slipped on a pair of glasses, the suddenly-sharp edges, the subtle variations of colours tangible for the first time, and the irresistible impulse to touch, to feel, to absorb the difference through his skin. Tenpou grins into the kiss and shoves him back onto the bed, chuckling as he falls with a grace that suggests he knew it was coming.

He crawls up on the bed after him, straddling his hips, grinning predatorily, and something in the back of his mind is screaming at him to notice something – something _important_  – but he can’t bring himself to care. Not now, not with Nii in his bed at last  
  
in   
his   
bed?

Tenpou blinks, the pieces finally clicking into place as his surroundings register, and what… “…the fuck?” he says blankly, gaping around his room as if he’d never seen it before; and damn it, it isn’t fair that the universe decides to pull this on him right when he’s finally found him again.

Nii huffs a little, and runs his hands over Tenpou’s thighs, giving him an even look, apparently completely at ease. “Hmm?”

Definitely far too calm. Tenpou frowns down at him, mind ticking over the possibilities. “I wasn't...we weren't...” _Here,_  he thinks, but they’ve moved from near-dark alley to brightly lit room, from what was announced to be a cold night to a warm room, and he can’t feel the difference, almost as if there isn’t anything _to_  feel.

And that’s when it all falls together at last; the dreams, the hints Nii’s been dropping, the gaps and blurs in his mind, all of it. Tenpou’s breath stops, and he has to swallow or choke, because there are only two logical answers to this, and neither is something he can even fully contemplate, let alone want to. The very thought of trying to unravel them sends a wave of nausea through him, but he’s developed some resistance at least, enough to grasp at the bits of memory he finds and retain them. Letting them swirl and settle and find each other, without his conscious mind trying to arrange them.

Nii reaches up to cup the side of his neck gently, and there’s understanding in his eyes as Tenpou looks down at him. “Shh. Let it come slowly.” His voice is pitched low, soothing, and he tugs at him, pulling him back down. “For right now... this. Remember _me._  ”

And he does, helpless to do anything else, giving himself over to the memories and letting himself be drawn downwards and in. His body hitches with the sob he can’t quite repress, the physical strain of forcing the blocks in his mind colliding with the drive to find some sort of resolution. He whispers Nii’s name, clinging to the knowledge of it like a talisman, holding it up against the uncertainty that threatens to swamp him as he kisses him again, harder this time, needing to lose himself in the sensations. And then he’s tugging at Nii’s pants, even as Nii shoves at his shirt, and kissing him as if his life depends on it – and his sanity certainly does. Nii’s hand threads tightly into his hair, the other pushing his shirt back, and off his shoulders, his kiss fierce. It drowns out the part of him that’s already begun to catalogue and analyse his environment, the things that don’t fit, and the sting of Nii’s fingernails digging into his chest as Tenpou wraps his hand around his cock is almost sweet.

Nii breaks the kiss to mouth at his jaw, licking a hot, wet line up to his ear. “Remember it, Tenpou? All those places, all the times like this...”

Tenpou shudders, his brain dragging up images of Nii’s words; of furtive encounters in their first days together; of biting bloody marks into his skin as Nii fucked him in the middle of a forest, ears trained for the sounds of others approaching; of that wicked mouth wrapped around his cock, and the laughter in Nii’s eyes as Tenpou tried to keep quiet and stay still and most importantly, not tip off the arms runner in whose ventilation ducts they waited like coiled snakes. Nii’s hand curls around his cock as his teeth close on his earlobe, and thought flees for a moment in the sensations that sparks, but he has to know and there’s no other way.

He tears himself away roughly, pushing up to straddle Nii’s thighs, bracing himself – and holding him still – with a palm to his chest. “It’s not real, is it?” he says, caught between a statement and a question.

Nii meets his gaze levelly, his voice quiet. “Well, that's the trick, isn't it? _Something_  isn't real. So the question is, which one, hm? Are you dreaming this, or was it the other?”

That pulls him up short for a moment, the choice stark in his face; the answer’s quick to be found this time, more certain; nothing that’s real can change as this has done, nothing. Nii hisses, arching against him, and he realises his nails have been digging bloody crescents into his skin. He bites his lip, looking down at him again, and the strangely deliberate admission of need in Nii’s eyes wars with how spontaneously his arms open to Tenpou as he closes the distance between them for another kiss. He knows better than to imagine a gesture of Nii’s that’s without some degree of calculation, but it’s drowned under the intensity of his desire as he kisses Tenpou back, sharpened by his own knowledge of how utterly conscious it is. He shudders against Nii, melting against him, thought washed away for a moment by pure want.

He snakes his hand down to slide into Nii’s pants, only to find his way obstructed by cloth again – soft, flexible material that is distinctly _not_  denim. Knows even before he raises his head that the room’s changed again, a frown creasing his forehead as he takes in the tiny motel room, the suddenly too-warm air, the distinctly foreign scent of it.

All that, however, is far, far less important than the fact that they’re both _fully clothed again._

Nii looks down at them for a second before he grins, completely unfazed. “You know, there are easier ways to indicate if you're not interested.”

That makes him growl with frustration, and he shifts his grip to Nii's shoulder as he rips blindly at his shirt, equally irritated by the reappearance of clothes and Nii’s nonchalant acceptance. The material gives way easily under his fingers this time, far more easily than it should, and he frowns even as he leans down to taste him again.

“Ah, now you're getting it,” Nii purrs.

“Where is this?” he says, between sharp little nips to his chest.

Nii hums contentedly, scratching lightly at his hair. “This room? This was Columbia...we were stuck in this room for weeks.”

_Columbia_  … he nods a little, the memory called up – the weeks in that tiny, stuffy room, and he’s sure now, perhaps irrationally sure, that Nii’s responsible for this sudden coherence of recollection.

Tenpou looks up at him for a moment, giving him a fiercely evil grin as he focuses on their clothes. _All a dream,_  he tells himself, and the words strike deep and true for the first time; it doesn’t even take the touch of his hand to shred their clothes to nothingness this time, savouring the sweet shock of skin against skin, the purely helpless moan Nii makes as Tenpou rocks against him, the way his eyes flutter closed. “…clothed?” he banters, breathless and trembling against him a little, his voice betraying him.

Nii shakes his head distractedly. “Not much.” The comment makes Tenpou grin, and Nii returns it as he winds his arm around Tenpou’s waist, making him shiver. “The mission took forever, do you remember? On the last day, I fucked you standing up by the window, so we wouldn't miss our chance.”

And he does remember – the feel of the evening breeze, Nii pressed to his back, the flick of his tongue over the sweaty nape of his neck as he fucked Tenpou, deep and hard. It’s as clear as a photograph in his mind, and Tenpou nods shakily, dipping his head to bite down on his neck again, harder this time. Nii hisses and arches into the bite, letting Tenpou taste blood. He licks at the lacerations, the part of him wondering whose memory is on his tongue drowned out by the taste of him, the sound of his voice, the way he shivers under him.

“ _Fuck, yes,_ ” Nii whispers, plea and fierce satisfaction threaded through his voice, and relief so pure that it makes him bury his face in Nii’s neck for a moment. Pulls away reluctantly, opening his mouth to ask him if he's got lube, before the idiocy of that question occurs to him. Of course there isn’t any, here. And yet…if it really is all within his control…Nii’s watching him, head tilted with curiosity, and Tenpou bites his lip as he focuses on Nii's body, grasping blindly at what he’s sure will work.

A slow grin crosses Nii’s face. “Oh, well done,” he breathes, squirming a little, impossibly enticing, inhaling a deep breath as he adjusts to the change.

Tenpou gives him a sharp grin, mirroring the tiny tilt of his head. “Why, thank you,” he purrs, raking his nails down Nii’s body as he rocks back to kneel between his legs, his grin turning outright predatory when Nii arches into them greedily. “Advantages, hmm?”

A soft sound of approval, and Nii moves easily with him as he hooks his knees over his arms, seamless anticipation, watching him with open hunger. Tenpou sucks in a deep desperate breath, rocking deep into him in one smooth movement, almost surprised by his own soft helpless cry.

Nii groans, a long, low sound of pure pleasure, his fingers bunching the bedcover, rocking up against him with a demanding little sound. “God, Tenpou... _fuck me_ ,” and he shudders, a ragged moan escaping him as he settles into a rough, desperate rhythm. Nii reaches out to him, a snarl of frustration in his throat as he finds they’re too far apart. “Come. Here.” Tenpou meets his gaze automatically; the need in Nii’s eyes making his breath catch as he leans in close, kissing him hard. Nii returns it fiercely, hands curling into his hair, digging into his side, wrapping his legs around him. Tenpou grinds against him hard, and he’s shaking with the sheer pleasure of it, every thought wiped from his conscious mind at last, the pain and the confusion of earlier, of weeks and months held at bay by the utter possessiveness of Nii’s hold on him. Bites at his mouth in retaliation for the sting of nails on his shoulder, broken skin on his back, shuddering as Nii growls a rough encouragement against his mouth.

Nii drags his nails down to Tenpou’s hip, making him cry out into his mouth, snaking his arm between them to stroke himself, hard and quick. _Close,_  Tenpou thinks; he knows the frantic edge Nii’s movements are building into, the way he tenses against him, writhing under him, and God, it’s far too soon – _far too long_ – but he’s terrifyingly close as well, his thrusts into him gaining a desperate edge. He groans, breaking the kiss to bury his face in Nii’s neck, gasping for breath, eyes squeezed tightly shut, utterly certain that he won’t be able to last if he looks at him. It’s almost impossible to think through the haze of lust in his mind, impossible even to conceive of something outside this, the taste and scent and feel of Nii under him, around him; he clutches his hip tighter, moaning his name brokenly, the plea naked in his voice.

Nii shudders hard at the sound, his fingers tightening painfully in Tenpou’s hair as he pulls him close, cradling him and clutching at him, possessiveness and need twisted together. It’s more powerful than anything else Tenpou’s ever experienced, and it sweeps him under yet again, wracks him with shudders as he kisses and licks Nii’s throat, feeling and hearing his near-growl under his mouth.

Nii cries out, the sound of Tenpou’s name blurred in how choked his voice is, the low sound tugging tiny breathless sounds of pleasure from him as he lets himself go at last, surrendering gratefully to the pleasure of the moment. Then Nii’s lifting his head, sinking his teeth into the juncture of Tenpou’s neck and shoulder; the pain twists like vines through his pleasure, and he groans as teeth break skin, feeling it as clearly as he feels the splash of Nii's come between them as he reaches climax, slicking both of them from abdomen to chest. He tilts his head to the side, chasing the sweet pain of it as he chases his own climax, fucking him harder as Nii writhes in pleasure, the close heat of his body addictive.

Nii’s teeth finally release him as his orgasm recedes, body falling pliant to Tenpou’s rough movements. He rolls into his thrusts, licking and biting at his neck, and whether it’s that or the whispered litany of Tenpou’s name – the demand in it – that pushes him over is something he’ll never know. He cries out sharply as he comes, the sensation so intense it’s disorienting, twisted almost past pleasure into pain, anchoring himself to his entirely too tenuous reality with the sound of Nii’s voice, clinging to it as he rocks hard into him, drawing out the pleasure and deepening it at once.

Nii matches his rhythm as Tenpou rides out his climax, hand gentling into a caress in his hair, pressing small kisses to his neck and jaw and cheek. The strangely naked affection is as reassuring as the secure hold of his hands, and Tenpou lets himself fall into it for a long moment, exhaling a shuddering breath as he collapses against him, burrowing in and wrapping himself around him, letting it silence the flutter of terror in his stomach at the gnawing thought that he might yet disappear.

The gentle, rhythmic stroke of Nii’s hand down his spine is unutterably soothing; he begins to relax under it, listening to the soft gentling sounds Nii makes. It’s not something he’s ever heard from the man before; perhaps he isn’t the only one lost, here, after all. Nii untangles himself carefully after a moment, and Tenpou has to struggle with himself to allow him to do so; it takes a moment to accomplish that, even with the security of his caresses to assure him he’s not going to vanish again.

“Tenpou?”

_“Hmm?”_

_Nii sighs, a familiar sound of frustration. “I'm sorry, but we haven't got much time left, and I need to tell you things.”_

_Tenpou nods against his skin, pulling away enough to look at him, gathering himself carefully into the steady, cold focus he remembers achieving effortlessly once. “All right,” he says crisply. “What is this and how do I get out?” Not that he isn’t fairly sure_  what, _but there are details he’s sure he won’t find from the inside._

_Nii smirks up at him a little, trailing his fingers up and down his spine. “It's as you said. A dream. You've been asleep for a very long time, and this..._  life...” _the contempt in his voice is sharp enough to flay skin from flesh. “It’s a dream constructed in your subconscious by outside forces.”_

_Tenpou breathes out slowly._  Think now; time enough for rage later. _“…I see.” He focuses himself on staying still, letting Nii soothe him as he whispers,“How long?”_

_Nii’s gaze is steady on his. “Six years, more or less.”_

_It’s worse than he expected – much worse. He’d thought months, a year perhaps, and this… over half a decade, like_  this. _“Fuck," he snarls._

_Nii presses his temple to Tenpou’s jaw; the caress holds him still, keeps him from exploding in rage, giving the game away. “This one's shorter than that - you fought them hard - but it's the fourth attempt.”_

Time enough for rage later, _Tenpou reminds himself carefully – and the fact that Nii’s there indicates that there will, indeed, be a later. The important questions come first. “How are you in here, then? And how do I get out?_

_Nii smirks a little. “In order to construct this world to their specifications, they created a link - I'll tell you all about it later, when we have days to kill. Every six months they bring you to the brink of surfacing. To make sure you still can. I've been lowering the drug doses for a couple of months now, so that when they bring you up this time, you'll_  wake up.”

_Tenpou nods again. “How soon?”_

_Nii’s hand winds into his hair.“Eight days. I've had to recalibrate the sensors so that they won't see it happening, but you're almost there. I need you to be careful now, though. Keep this intact, and wait for me.”_

_The rage is subsiding now, replaced by a familiar calm that wars with the rising knowledge of who he is. “I've done more difficult things.”_

_“Mm, that you have. Even in here. They couldn't stop you smoking, though they tried repeatedly, and they've had to settle with implanting memories of women.” Nii grins at him wickedly. “I'm afraid I'll have to take care of everyone in this lab when we leave, but...”_

_“You’re_  afraid?”

_His grin widens. “Well, I'm sure you would have liked to be in on that, hm? Unfortunately, you'll have to settle for the ones responsible for sending you there in the first place.”_

_Tenpou smirks a little. “Sounds acceptable.”_

_He sighs, letting go reluctantly and rolling off him to sit up. Nii makes a little sound of protest, but joins him. “Tell me you can conjure up a couple of smokes. I don't have much influence here, aside from being able to break shit.”_

_Tenpou blinks. “Well, I could probably...” he extends his hand to Nii, feeling rather foolish at the gesture. A rather insubstantial pack shivers reluctantly into being on his palm._

_Nii runs a hand through his hair distractedly as he takes the pack. “I have your katana.”_

_That makes Tenpou grin; it’ll be_  good _to hold that in his hand again, instead of a fucking briefcase and tea thermos. “Oh, good.” Not long, then. “Eight days.” The words are pure relief; he’s not sure he can keep up the pretense of being an insect much longer than that._

_Nii shakes out two cigarettes before tossing the pack on the bed; it makes an oddly_  thin _sound as it lands. “Eight days,” he agrees, before sighing a little. “It's not going to be easy. They've had you in a suspension tank for the better part of six years, Tenpou. They've taken care, but there's still only so much you can do with machinery.” He slips his smoke between his lips. “Of course, delay isn't the same as denial, and the list is long.”_

_The thought is sobering. Tenpou shivers a little, imagining himself after years of muscular atrophy, taking a deep breath before he takes the cigarette. “How long before you have to go?”_

_“I'm not sure...time is different in here. Very soon, I think.”_

_That isn’t unexpected. “All right,” he murmurs, pressing his side into Nii’s, taking comfort from the heat of his skin._

_“I can’t come back between now and then,” Nii continues, faster now. “The sensors are one thing, but I can’t fool the scans-” he cuts himself off, starting, focus turning inward for a second._   “Shit, _there’s the alarm.” He grabs the back of Tenpou’s neck, pulling him in for one more kiss. “Remember, and keep your head down. I’m coming for you.”_

_Tenpou nods, but he isn’t sure Nii sees it before he disappears._

_He sits there for a few moments, still reeling. Sucks in a shuddering breath and focuses, trying to pull Nii back into existence as he drew the cigarettes. The motel room shivers around him again, and the air next to him shimmers, but there’s no other change. He slumps back against the headboard, sighing. “Fuck,” he says again. “Eight days.”_

_He’s only aware he’s digging his nails into the bite mark on his throat when they break the skin, making him hiss in pain._

_The memory’s sweet._  


	4. Countdown

He comes to with the low, fading whine of the helmet winding down in his ears. The usual routine: break the tab, fight down the nauseated lurch in his stomach, wait for the drug-induced fog to thin and wisp away. Something new filters into his consciousness, and he chuckles at himself as he pushes the helmet from his head and looks around for something resembling a towel.

In his defense, he reasons, that dream was the most action he's seen in six years.

Once again, the rats unwittingly come to his aid, having obsessively placed everything that might ever possibly be needed onto the instrument tray beside the chair. Medical-grade cloth, in Nii's experience, tends to be next to useless in the absorbency department (and the vast majority of other departments, frankly), but he manages with a little diligence. His mind is already engaged in preparations for the end game, the seven-day countdown to his own miniature armageddon rolling out necessities and plans like a red carpet to Doomsday.

Tidied up and fully coherent, he slides his legs off the chair, finally allowing himself to focus on the tank as he stands up. Rolls his sleeve back down as he crosses the short space between, really looking at the man inside for the first time in months. He'd had to sever himself shortly after he came here, the sight of once-strong limbs wasted and thin, skin just barely kept from rotting alive by chemicals and daily rounds of phototherapeutic light igniting a rage so cold that it burns, even his iron control threatening to snap under the force of it. That control, that ability to spend five months not seeing what he had come here to find had been the reason they'd taken the one and not the other, and it seems now as though it will be what saves them both, in the end.

There are changes, things the sensors would see, if they weren't working exclusively for him now, things that the others would never catch. Tiny jerks in the body, the subtle difference in the movement of eyes behind lids closed for so long...and his own pure, utterly unscientific _knowing_. In eight days, those eyes _will_  open and the world will end for rats.

Nii raises a hand to the place on his throat where Tenpou had bitten him hard enough to draw blood, half-expecting the sting of lacerated flesh. He feels nothing but smooth skin - no sting, no welt, _nothing_  to show for this crack in the walls - and his body is empty, without even the ghost of sensation where Tenpou had been inside him. His jaw clenches, his hand moving to press against the glass wall of the tank, and the man inside would have recognised the expression in his eyes.

"I'm coming to get you."


End file.
